Milk and Honey
by Alien Under the Bed
Summary: "Kira is silent for a long moment, simply staring into Mikami's distressed face. Then he smiles again, a thoughtful, secretive smile. 'We are milk and honey, you and I,' is all he says." Mikami has failed. He spends his final moments having tea with God. Warning: disturbing scenes. Not for the fainthearted.


**A/N: **In this story, Kira has won and now rules his "perfect" world as a god.

* * *

"Milk or honey?"

Red eyes look at him expectantly, cold and calculating. Thinly gloved hands hold a black china teapot and pour tea into two hollow skulls that serve as cups. Mikami holds the cup gingery, grasping the smooth bone between the eye sockets with his thumb and forefinger.

"Honey, if you please."

Kira nods and sets down the black pot after serving first Mikami, then himself. He reaches for a glass jar with a single, blinking Shinigami eye adorning the lid and spoons its amber contents into Mikami's cup. He then picks up a small pitcher with a gaping human jaw for a spout and pours startling white milk into his own cup. He leans back in his throne and stares, unblinking, at Mikami across the red and black checkered tea table.

The table stretches for at least twenty feet; Kira and Mikami are seated at opposite ends. The four legs of the table are nothing more than human spines, three for each table leg, of equal height bound together with elastics veins and arteries. Patches of skin and ripped muscle still cling to the skeletal hands that are nailed to the bottom of each table leg, and Mikami believes that the table could hobble away if it wanted to. He shifts uneasily in his seat. It is comfortably cushioned and the backrest towers nearly three feet above his head, but there are clawed Shinigami hands bolted to the sides of each armrest, poised as if ready to trap him in a wrist-crushing grip and rip the flesh from his forearms lest he try to escape. Mikami cradles his teacup and sips anxiously.

"Do you know why you are here, Teru Mikami?" Kira questions smoothly. His eyes never part from Mikami's.

Mikami sets his cup down carefully. The coronal and saggital sutures stand out clearly against the stark paleness of the skull. Idly, he wonders if the skull has been painted - surely it cannot be so white? Kira's eyes bore into his own skull. Mikami cannot shake the feeling that his skull is being examined, as if Kira is considering adding it to his tea set. He swallows, perturbed.

"I have displeased you, God," he answers, bowing his head. There is a slight tremor to his voice, but Kira does not react. "I have not sufficiently aided you in the ruling of your New World. I have tainted its perfection with my mistakes."

He closes his eyes against Kira's relentless gaze and grips the edge of the table tightly. It is made of marble, and feels cold under his palms. The coldness conjures images of corpses in his mind.

"I most sincerely apologize." Tears prick threateningly at the backs of his eyelids. His remorse is genuine; he suffers deep shame with himself for lacking in his duty as a judge of God's rotten children.

Kira's nostrils flare slightly, as if he can smell the salty tears brimming in the corners of Mikami's eyes. His lips pull back in a cold smile.

"Teru Mikami," he says softly, like a prayer. Mikami does not dare to raise his head.

Suddenly, there are two long fingers under his chin. Mikami looks up, startled to find Kira standing next to him, slightly bent over to provide better eye contact. He has crossed the entire twenty feet of table separating them in less time than it takes to draw in a breath. His red eyes are even more vibrant up close, his pupils like two black islands in a sea of blood. Mikami supresses a shudder.

Kira is silent for a long moment, simply staring into Mikami's distressed face. Then he smiles again, a thoughtful, secretive smile.

"We are milk and honey, you and I," is all he says. Mikami blinks, unsure of how to respond or even if he is supposed to. Finally, he can no longer contain his curiosity.

"Milk and honey, my Lord?" he prompts tentatively.

"But of course," answers Kira. "You are honey: the product of pointless labor, only to be stolen from the hive like an infant from its cradle and forced into a confined space. You think you have broken free, but really, you have only been transferred to a different jar. You are slow and thick, just like honey."

Mikami shifts uncomfortably at the subtle insult to his intelligence but does not refute it.

"And I am milk," Kira continues. "Quick and flexible, able to slip through the fingers of anyone who tries to catch me."

"Yet you expire long before honey," Mikami points out. By the time he realizes what a grave error he has made, the words are already out, hanging in the air like lynched men. Kira's eyes flash.

Mikami cannot breathe. There is a horrible stinging in his arms, and it takes a moment for him to understand that the Shinigami claws nailed to the armrests of his chair have stripped most of the flesh from his forearms. He notes with detached interest that he can see his radius and ulna.

It takes another moment for him to realize that Kira's hand is around his throat, and that he is choking him. Mikami's mouth opens and closes like a suffocating fish. His chest trembles and burns. Kira hisses in his ear like an angry serpent that has been humiliated by a thousand gods.

"You dare to suggest that I am mortal? That I can be outlived by a mere human, and a pathetic, cowardly, insolent one at that? How dare you insult the god of the New World. I have brought divine justice and order to a poisoned world. I _am_ justice. I am God!"

Kira's figure is starting to blur, but Mikami's terror remains perfectly clear. The man who stands before him is not a man at all. He is not human. His eyes burn with the fires of Hell itself. His face is a heinous expression of rage, contorted by the hand of evil. Mikami can see in Kira's face all the past and future horrors of the world - every war, every plague, every drop of blood shed in the name of peace and religion. His very heart trembles in fear.

The pressure around Mikami's throat vanishes suddenly, and the Shinigami claws retract from his forearms just as quickly. He collapses to the floor, coughing and gasping. There is not enough air in the world to ease the ache in his lungs, and he spends a moment simply breathing heavily and desperately.

When the threat of unconsciousness has been quelled, Mikami attempts to push himself to his feet but slips on his own blood. He looks uncomprehendingly at his arms. Long strips of skin hang from his arms like theater curtains, parted to let a cast of scarlet-clad dancers gush forth. He can see his bones between the flaps of skin and shredded muscle, and he reaches out with morbid fascination to touch his radius. It is warm and shockingly solid.

"You used to be reliable, Teru Mikami," says Kira, walking in a circle around him. "Honest, loyal - a true follower of my ways. But now you are a menace." He squats gracefully and leans forward so that his face is inches from Mikami's. Disoriented, Mikami wonders if Kira has a snake tongue that can flicker out from between his lips and scrape the flesh from Mikami's nose in a single, venomous lick.

"You know what happens to a menace?" Kira questions languidly. Mikami weakly shakes his head. Kira smiles, as if he has just triumphed over the thousand gods that once mocked him. "I kill him."

Mikami can only blink, not fully grasping that he has essentially been issued a death sentence. He tilts his head slightly.

"My Lord?"

"Whenever I see a menace, I lose myself," Kira admits, still a hand's breadth away from Mikami's face. "I become Rex Irae, King of Wrath, and hunger for blood as a newborn hungers for milk." He smiles slightly at the fitting metaphor, but there is nothing human about his smile. "And when that happens, I simply must kill the menace. Do you understand, Teru Mikami?"

Mikami nods stupidly, years of obedience ingrained in him. He does not understand at all.

Kira's smile grows wider.

"Good," is all he says, and plunges a knife into Mikami's stomach.

Once again, Mikami finds himself unable to breathe. He looks down at himself with blank wonder. There is a knife jutting out from his lower stomach (funny, he does not remember Kira having a knife in his hand). He could almost laugh, but blood gurgles in his mouth instead.

Kira grabs the knife's handle delicately and forces it upward, cutting a long, vertical line in Mikami's abdomen. He can feel his organs shifting as gravity pulls them towards the gaping wound. He gags soundlessly.

Kira has taken off his gloves and rolled up his sleeves, and now he reaches into Mikami and scoops out his organs in one fluid motion. He sets them carefully to one side, then feels around until his hand finds Mikami's trembling heart. He looks at Mikami one final time and smiles his cold, inhuman smile.

"Kill the menace," he says, and gives a harsh tug. He grunts slightly at the effort, but at last Mikami's heart is in his hand, beating feebly for a few seconds longer before going still. Mikami, too, is still. His glassy eyes stare unseeingly at the ceiling above him. The ceiling has been painted, its vibrant colors depicting Kira surrounded by an unholy halo of light. His followers kneel before him, faces hidden under white hoods, hands cupped to him in worship. Mikami sees none of this. His body, stuffed with apple seeds, now hangs on a butcher's hook along with millions of other menaces.

Kira sips tea from a skull cup, enjoying the new addition to his tea set.


End file.
